Over the past few weeks, I've begun to feel more grounded, swapping the fast paced traveling for a slower more indepth approach to exploring a single place. My small hostel has grown into my temporary home which is helped by the fact that I have my own room and more or less free reign of the kitchen. The intimate dining-come common area has a wall of windows overlooking the outstreached valley of Cusco that's forever overlooked by an ominous backdrop of Andean mountains. With such a location and the means to cook, it's become an ideal place for entertaining and socializing.
25/12/08
Christmas was no different and Aiden (a very Irish, Irish guy who works in an Irish bar in town) and I decided we'd get the biggest Turkey we could carry from the fantastic San Pedro market.
The San Pedro market, close to the heart of Cusco, is a never ending frenzy of activity, with a hubbub of optimistic haggeling throughout. Cheap but amazingly tasty food is serverd at bar-like counters with everything from fruit smoothies, raw fish prepared in lime juice to the local speciality of Guinea pig. For the more adventuros chefs, cows heads, hoofs, spines and tounges are waiting to be made into who knows what. But for the most part the fresh smells and spices intice and turn heads in every direction.
Having bought a Turkey big enough to get a part as the Trojan horse in a school play, we quickly realised our kitchen lacked one vital ingredient . . . . . . an oven. With the prospect of chewing on boiled bird for the next month, we asked around to see what a local might do in our situation. To our suprise ovens are exclusivly status symbols of the Peruvian upper class and the vast majority think 'Russel and Hobbs' is a bad comedy duo. The result is an act of community, now lost in most parts of the West. The local bakeries offer up their gigantic clay ovens for one day only to anyone and everyone who need them.
We found ourselfves standing amoungst a gaggle of middle-aged Peruvian women, turkeys in hand, everyone with elbows out (chicken style), fighting for position. The man who carried the fate of a hundred families Christmasses on his shoulders was the sweat soaked baker, who had reportedly been working for 24 hours straight. We watched in amazment as he expertly shuffled and juggled each dinner to be, with a long wooden paddle that wouldn't have looked out of place on a Viking gallion. After three hours we returned to a perfectly cooked Turkey and a baker, continuing to shovel in new ones like coal into a steam engine. After a quick thank you toast, we headed back for a few unhealthly hours of indulgence.
Later we were joined by a few others from the hostal and Ciara and Harriet, who I'd met a week before. Fuelled by mulled wine and The Pogues singing in the background, much nonsense was talked and aimless games played. To get a taste of what was happening in the centre, we headed for a late night bar, leaving behined our still relativly untouched tasty turkey and a small bomb sight of drinks and candle wax. The bad singing to bad Christmas songs (Pogues excluded) continued where they left off, stopping only to say goodnight to a Kiwi from the hostal named Nick, who left declaring hunger had found him again.
A few of us, back in front of the panoramic view of the hostal windows, watched the sun slowly melt the top of the mountains. The moment was broken by Aiden's cry of 'what the #&€%!!' as he presented us with a completely stripped carcus, that a forensic scientist would have trouble identifying as our once plump turkey. To get to the bottom of this culinary crime, the next few minutes followed like the final scene of an episoed of Columbo with the conclusion coming down to a break-in by a pack of street dogs or our peckish companion from New Zealand. But it was agreed best left, till sleep could clarify the final finger point.
Around midday, the culprit turned himself in, red faced and apologetic. It turned out it was Nick after all and not the wild dogs (as was the popular opinion). Like a wise man, he came baring gifts, a box of chocolates and a cooked, ready to eat chicken. In the spirit of Christmas, all was forgiven and we wished him well as he left for pastures more plentiful. The extent of his gorging only became fully apparent later on, when the hostel owner discovered that his chicken leftovers had also been devouered. The man had eaten more than a herd of hungry hippos at a cheap buffet.
31/12/08
Fireworks are a common commodity in Cusco and most mornings you are woken up with the horrific thought that your neighbour has just faced a firing squad. New Years eve is slightly special though, anyone with a patch of land to there name (and ones without) stock up with any and every type of explosive they can get there three fingered hands on. An hour before the turn of the year, at eleven on the dot, every house, church, workplace, barn and park plays host to a display. I was fortunate enough to witness these displays from the top of a large hill, overlooking the entire town. I can honestly say it was one of the most encredible sights I've ever witnessed, it was too much to take in with one pair of eyes. The valley became a glow as a million multicoloured explosions filled the air in a relentless 10 minute cycle where new flashes replaced dying embers over evey square inch of the city. The effect was like a night sea swamped with glowing jellyfish, speaking in a jumbled morse code.
With flames still dancing in my eyes, I headed down to the main square for the countdown. Suddenly, as if the sky was replying to the earlier barrage the rain started to fall. However the downpour didn't seem to dampen the spirits, and a massive crowd had gathered in expectency. In keeping with Latin America's relaxed approach to the concept of time, there was no countdown, nor did anyone really know when it started to be 2009. This led to a prefered sucession of multiple celebrations that culminated in a mass movement of people walking, jumping and skipping in a anti-clockwise flow around the main square. The rest of the night is patchy.
03/01/09
Cusco has a relatively big football club, Cienciano, who in 2003 won the Copa Sudamericana (the equivilant of the Champions Leauge in Europe) against River Plate. So they seemed an obvious candidate for some fickel fan adoption. Aiden and I went down to the stadium, deep into the valley. After chatting with the security guard, we soon found to our disapointment, that the season didn't start till February. He did however seem quite proud of the footballing fortress he defended and insisted we come in and look around. We walked around the empty stands, hearing the ghostly raw of an imaginary crowd. We then found the grounds man tentativly preparing the seemingly perfect pitch for the coming season. Once we'd complemented his handy work a couple of times, he agreed to let us on to the sacred turf. I suddenly remembered seeing the security guard's dog chewing on an old football back at the entrance so with the guards help, I destracted the giant German Shepard and grabbed the slobber soaked ball from under its nose. What followed was a two grown men running around like idiots, fulfilling their schoolboy dreams. After unsuccessfully replicating some of the great moments of footballs past, undeservedly complimented by some ridiculous over-the-top goal celebrations, the grounds man had seen enough. We left, clapping to our imaginary crowd and offering to exchange shirts with a team that wasn't there. The grounds man, rolling his eyes, said goodbye through his teeth. The next set of teeth I encountered belonged to the guard dog so I willingly handed him the match ball.
We left with smiles cemented on our faces and commenting on what the reaction might be back home if we tried the same, we started to wonder where else we could get into . . . . . . . .
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Cuzco sits at a dizzy 3400m above sea level. Nestled deep in the Andies and higher than Machu Picchu, it makes for the ideal place to acclimatize to the altitude before endeavoring to trek anywhere. As it slides down into a valley, you can't walk anywhere without tackling a hill or two and as my hostel is positioned on top of one the biggest hills, my lungs were put to the test immediately.
In the first few days I frequently found myself stopping to catch my breath only to be overtaken by small, hunched-over women in their late 70s, carrying a bundles on their backs the size of a small cars. I would be left helplessly panting like a over-worked husky stranded in the Sahara Dessert.
After crawling up a hill in search of breakfast on my first morning, I chose a place that looked popular with the locals. Upon hearing the list of dishes they served and not recognizing any of them, I agreed to the first one mentioned. I noticed catching some surprised glances and could hear faint chuckles coming from the kitchen but thought nothing of it. Then placed in front of me was a large bowl of soap with half a sheep's head blankly staring back at me (flesh, eye and teeth included). Feeling like I was in a Indiana Jones movie, I gingerly picked round my fleece ridden friend and politely reflected the beaming smile of the young man who'd joyfully served me the dish. Feeling decidedly sheepish (oh dear), I left with dreams of scrabbled egg, hash browns and baked beans.
After feeling marginally fitter Nick, Rob (an Aussie from my hostel) and I booked a three day trek including a day biking down a mountain, lots of jungle walking and a relaxing session in some natural hot springs before reaching our goal of Machu Picchu.
08/12/08
The morning was overcast as the minibus set off with us and the rest of our group to the top of a mountain near the Inca village of Ollantaytambo. The higher we drove, the deeper into the clouds we were and rain started to lash against the windows. On the advice of our guides we were dressed more like a beach volleyball team then people about to be thrown down a wet, wind swept mountain. After a couple of gear changes, we realised the bikes were a health and safety nightmare but what was more apparent was the freezing, stinging wind and rain which soon turned my exposed skin as red as a slapped bottom. This also made visibility virtually impossible and with no lights, left us at the mercy of any oncoming traffic on the narrow mountain roads. In this uninhabited wilderness, territory is divided up between the wild dogs, who don't take kindly to visitors. On a number of occasions I found a hairy hound barking and yapping at my ever more frantically peddling heels.
After thawing out with a hot cup of coca tea (coca being the base ingredient of cocaine but in its leaf form is a regularly taken, legal stimulant that supposedly helps with altitude sickness), we explored the small town of Santa Maria. We soon found that the majority of the towns people had taken to the streets in celebration and some had assembled a bands to which the locals were dancing and drinking an orange throthy liquid to. The liquid was later discovered to be a plant thats alcohol is extracted by chewing it and spitting it out (the throth being saliver). Due to our ignorance we were unaware that it was the Independence from Spain day which didn't stop us (along with two Spanish from our group) joining in the celebrations. With the confidence that can only be gained by a few cups of saliver, a few of us tried to take on some local youngsters in a highly competitive kick-about. Night had fallen and a mere sliver of moon and street light provided a convenient excuse that a bunch of 11 year olds completely embarrassed us with their South American trickery. We begrudgingly shook their tiny hands and left whist vocalizing complaints of flaws in the perfectly flat, concrete pitch.
Having been told we were to wake up at a dream shattering 3:30am to catch a bus to the start of our trek, we waited out in the cold, dark morning...........waited and waited some more. Three hours later our hung over guide surfaced, with his saliver smelling strongly of saliver he made up some story about a lost bus driver and put us into a taxi. The taxi driver then proceeded to drive like a man possessed around mountain, cliff edge roads, barely wide enough for a bike with stabilizers. We were hurtling around for around 40 mins, by which time he had picked up 7 hitchhikers, 2 squeezed in the back seat and 5 in the boot! Once dropped at Santa Taressa we waited a further two hours until our new guide and group showed up. On arrival the guide broke the news that the planned and eagerly awaited hot springs were not on his schedule. This coupled with sleep deprivation made for an interesting Spanglish argument which in the end, as we had no idea where we were, we gave up and settled for the new trek to Aguas Calientes (the town at the foot of Machu Picchu).
Although not wanting to admit it at first, the trek was fantastic. We followed disused railway tracks that snaked into the Andies, running parallel to and criss crossing a huge turbulent river that further down became the Amazon. I had to crane my neck back full tilt to catch a glimpse of the ever present mountain peaks that loomed over us. The sun too had decided to make an appearance, soon the memories of the morning evaporated in the midday air.
It wasn't till we were well relaxed into our meal that night, that the guide broke further bad news that our money for the entrance to M P had not been transferred and would have to be paid again. This issue took the rest of the evening to resolve by which time Spanglish had dissolved into hysterics and just thinking of the pile up of blunders sent everyone into uncontrollable fits of laughter.
10/12/09
The morning (4:00am) brought no reprieve. We discovered we weren't getting breakfast and my lunch bag was half missing. Faced with the prospect of climbing up M P on a chocolate bar and carton of juice, I was helplessly gripped by the giggles once more. Deciding we'd pool our food resources, we began to tackle the steep Inca steps as a group brought closer together by the shared mishaps. The morning mist was dense but as we approached the top, the days fresh air moved in and blew the mist away like dust from and old, well-known photograph. We had found the lost city of the Incas. As we had set off so early we were treated to it before the waves of tourist buses began crashing through the turnstiles and through squinted eyes could look on it as it may have been 500 years ago.
The sense of achievement was high and six of us decided to treat ourselves to three courses and a few bottles at a recommended restaurant back in Aguas Calientes. A train then buss whisked us back to Cuzco for around 10 where with new-found energy we continued the celebrations late into the night, reliving moments from the past few days to the bored expressions of locals who'd heard it all before.
In the first few days I frequently found myself stopping to catch my breath only to be overtaken by small, hunched-over women in their late 70s, carrying a bundles on their backs the size of a small cars. I would be left helplessly panting like a over-worked husky stranded in the Sahara Dessert.
After crawling up a hill in search of breakfast on my first morning, I chose a place that looked popular with the locals. Upon hearing the list of dishes they served and not recognizing any of them, I agreed to the first one mentioned. I noticed catching some surprised glances and could hear faint chuckles coming from the kitchen but thought nothing of it. Then placed in front of me was a large bowl of soap with half a sheep's head blankly staring back at me (flesh, eye and teeth included). Feeling like I was in a Indiana Jones movie, I gingerly picked round my fleece ridden friend and politely reflected the beaming smile of the young man who'd joyfully served me the dish. Feeling decidedly sheepish (oh dear), I left with dreams of scrabbled egg, hash browns and baked beans.
After feeling marginally fitter Nick, Rob (an Aussie from my hostel) and I booked a three day trek including a day biking down a mountain, lots of jungle walking and a relaxing session in some natural hot springs before reaching our goal of Machu Picchu.
08/12/08
The morning was overcast as the minibus set off with us and the rest of our group to the top of a mountain near the Inca village of Ollantaytambo. The higher we drove, the deeper into the clouds we were and rain started to lash against the windows. On the advice of our guides we were dressed more like a beach volleyball team then people about to be thrown down a wet, wind swept mountain. After a couple of gear changes, we realised the bikes were a health and safety nightmare but what was more apparent was the freezing, stinging wind and rain which soon turned my exposed skin as red as a slapped bottom. This also made visibility virtually impossible and with no lights, left us at the mercy of any oncoming traffic on the narrow mountain roads. In this uninhabited wilderness, territory is divided up between the wild dogs, who don't take kindly to visitors. On a number of occasions I found a hairy hound barking and yapping at my ever more frantically peddling heels.
After thawing out with a hot cup of coca tea (coca being the base ingredient of cocaine but in its leaf form is a regularly taken, legal stimulant that supposedly helps with altitude sickness), we explored the small town of Santa Maria. We soon found that the majority of the towns people had taken to the streets in celebration and some had assembled a bands to which the locals were dancing and drinking an orange throthy liquid to. The liquid was later discovered to be a plant thats alcohol is extracted by chewing it and spitting it out (the throth being saliver). Due to our ignorance we were unaware that it was the Independence from Spain day which didn't stop us (along with two Spanish from our group) joining in the celebrations. With the confidence that can only be gained by a few cups of saliver, a few of us tried to take on some local youngsters in a highly competitive kick-about. Night had fallen and a mere sliver of moon and street light provided a convenient excuse that a bunch of 11 year olds completely embarrassed us with their South American trickery. We begrudgingly shook their tiny hands and left whist vocalizing complaints of flaws in the perfectly flat, concrete pitch.
Having been told we were to wake up at a dream shattering 3:30am to catch a bus to the start of our trek, we waited out in the cold, dark morning...........waited and waited some more. Three hours later our hung over guide surfaced, with his saliver smelling strongly of saliver he made up some story about a lost bus driver and put us into a taxi. The taxi driver then proceeded to drive like a man possessed around mountain, cliff edge roads, barely wide enough for a bike with stabilizers. We were hurtling around for around 40 mins, by which time he had picked up 7 hitchhikers, 2 squeezed in the back seat and 5 in the boot! Once dropped at Santa Taressa we waited a further two hours until our new guide and group showed up. On arrival the guide broke the news that the planned and eagerly awaited hot springs were not on his schedule. This coupled with sleep deprivation made for an interesting Spanglish argument which in the end, as we had no idea where we were, we gave up and settled for the new trek to Aguas Calientes (the town at the foot of Machu Picchu).
Although not wanting to admit it at first, the trek was fantastic. We followed disused railway tracks that snaked into the Andies, running parallel to and criss crossing a huge turbulent river that further down became the Amazon. I had to crane my neck back full tilt to catch a glimpse of the ever present mountain peaks that loomed over us. The sun too had decided to make an appearance, soon the memories of the morning evaporated in the midday air.
It wasn't till we were well relaxed into our meal that night, that the guide broke further bad news that our money for the entrance to M P had not been transferred and would have to be paid again. This issue took the rest of the evening to resolve by which time Spanglish had dissolved into hysterics and just thinking of the pile up of blunders sent everyone into uncontrollable fits of laughter.
10/12/09
The morning (4:00am) brought no reprieve. We discovered we weren't getting breakfast and my lunch bag was half missing. Faced with the prospect of climbing up M P on a chocolate bar and carton of juice, I was helplessly gripped by the giggles once more. Deciding we'd pool our food resources, we began to tackle the steep Inca steps as a group brought closer together by the shared mishaps. The morning mist was dense but as we approached the top, the days fresh air moved in and blew the mist away like dust from and old, well-known photograph. We had found the lost city of the Incas. As we had set off so early we were treated to it before the waves of tourist buses began crashing through the turnstiles and through squinted eyes could look on it as it may have been 500 years ago.
The sense of achievement was high and six of us decided to treat ourselves to three courses and a few bottles at a recommended restaurant back in Aguas Calientes. A train then buss whisked us back to Cuzco for around 10 where with new-found energy we continued the celebrations late into the night, reliving moments from the past few days to the bored expressions of locals who'd heard it all before.
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